


the taste of ash

by Someone_aka_Me



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Grief, Guilt, M/M, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 14:42:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15910353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Someone_aka_Me/pseuds/Someone_aka_Me
Summary: "He can't breathe. His throat is full of mortar and smoke. / Distantly, he realizes he is shaking. / Distantly, he realizes this is a memory." / The war is over, but Percy can't stop remembering Fred's death.





	the taste of ash

The thing is, it's the  _stupidest_ things that keep setting him off.

This time, it's looking in the mirror.

He's pulling the knot of his tie tight, running a hand through his curls but then his gaze catches on his eyes — brown, with a hint of warmth because today has been a good day so far.

And suddenly, it's Fred staring back at him instead of his own reflection, Fred's eyes losing their light, Fred's eyes asking him  _how could you let this happen to me?_ Percy's mouth is thick with the taste of crumbling brick and ash, like an aftertaste he can't get rid of. He can hear the rumble of a fight in the distance, can hear Yaxley cackling in his ear, can see the brick crushing Fred's body.

He can't breathe. His throat is full of mortar and smoke.

Distantly, he realizes he is shaking.

Distantly, he realizes this is a memory.

Realizing that it is a memory is always the beginning of his panic ending, but it's never quite enough.

His hands are trembling and he's clutching at the counter, desperately, as a lifeline.

He can smell blood.

He closes his eyes, breathes in deeply. He counts, silently.

_It's just a memory_ , he reminds himself.

And very slowly, the taste of smoke begins to fade.

The smell of blood doesn't.

He opens his eyes, unclenches his fists, and finds his hands covered in blood.

The edge of the counter is covered with shards of glass, and the bathroom mirror that he'd just been looking at is shattered.

He takes in another deep breath.

He's tired.

He thought he was done with bursts of accidental magic when he turned eleven and went to Hogwarts.

It turns out that trauma can bring it back.

He hates this. It makes him feel weak.

The Healers say it's a natural response to a traumatic incident.

Percy doesn't care.

He just wants to feel in control of his life again.

He pulls the shards of glass out of his hands, casts a healing spell and watches the skin knit together. The healing spell he casts with his left hand comes out shaky and awkward and he knows that his right palm is going to scar, but right now, he doesn't care.

Right now, he doesn't care about much. He takes a deep breath, straightens his tie, and leaves for work.

...

It's fine.

Percy is fine.

Well. He's dealing.

All of his incidences have been while he was alone. His flat has a shattered mirror, no remaining picture frames, and a few scorched walls, but it's… fine. No one ever comes over, anyway.

He's working for Kingsley, helping the man figure out what it means to be Minister when Kingsley never asked for the position. And Percy's good at his job. He remains at Kingsley's shoulder, handing him things before he even asks for them.

But then it all falls apart.

He's having dinner with Oliver. They were best friends, once, and then Percy made a million mistakes and they drifted apart. After the war, Percy had apologized to so many people.

Oliver had welcomed him back with open arms.

They're at a tiny Italian restaurant in Diagon Alley, at a table in the corner. It's cozy, candlelit.

Percy is wondering if Oliver's choice of location means anything. It's… intimate.

Percy's known he loves Oliver since they were fifteen. He'd seen Oliver come back from a game, flushed with the glow of victory, and he'd barely held back the urge to kiss him.

At the time, he hadn't dared say anything. Oliver was the only one who  _saw_ him, who looked past his inadvertently abrasive exterior. He hadn't ever wanted to risk losing Oliver, not for anything.

But now, he already knows what it feels like to lose him because of his own stupidity. And he knows better than to think Oliver would ever leave him because Percy dares to love him.

And sometimes, Oliver looks at him and Percy thinks Oliver might love him back.

So now they're… Well, Percy's not really sure. It feels like they're dancing around it, neither wanting to be the first to mention it.

And now they're sitting in candlelight, having dinner.

And it feels like maybe it's the start of something, but then the door opens and there's a slight breeze and the candle flame  _jumps_  and Percy is watching it burn  _and he can taste the ash and the dust_.

And he's sinking, and he's trying to breathe but he  _can't_  and he's clawing at his throat but it's not  _helping_.

He's slipping under and it feels like he's drowning. There, in front of him, is Fred, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. He's dead, and it's Percy's fault. It's all Percy's fault. Guilt and grief are a limitless ocean of misery and he's slipping beneath the surface.

"Please," he hears, as though from miles away. "Percy." It's thin and pained and the voice is familiar but he can't place it.

He struggles to breathe, trying to force air into his lungs. His breathing is shallow, too fast, but the world is starting to clear.

"Please," the voice says again, and it's Oliver. It's Oliver's voice, and he's in pain. Percy's eyes snap open, and he feels a tremble in his limbs.

That's when he realizes his hand is gripped so tightly around Oliver's wrist that the bones are grating together audibly.

He releases it with a gasp. "I'm sorry," he breathes desperately. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

He can't look Oliver in the eyes. He's still trying to steady his breathing. He can't look up; he can't bear to see what damage he might've caused.

There's a hand at his chin, and Oliver is tipping his face gently, encouraging Percy to meet his eyes.

"Hey," he says softly. "Hey. I'm okay. You want to tell me what that was about?"

His eyes are warm, without a hint of accusation: just puzzlement. It's enough to make Percy clench a fist tightly, dig his nails into his palm, and say, "I've been having flashbacks." Oliver takes his hand, uncurls his fist and holds it gently, their palms pressed together, fingers intertwined.

Percy braces himself looks around. There are burn marks on the ceiling — right above each candle.

He takes a shuddering breath. "I've been having some issues with accidental magic flare-ups."

Oliver grins, wry. "Well, I noticed that much."

Oliver's lack of judgement is enough to make the rest of it come spilling out — the way Fred's eyes are haunting him, the way he can't get rid of the aftertaste of smoke and dust.

"I don't know what to do," he says at the end, the words coming out desperate, broken. He's at the end of his rope. He's  _hurt Oliver_. This can't go on, but Percy doesn't know how to stop it. "I don't know how to fix this."

Oliver raises the hand that isn't clasping Percy's — the one with bruising already purpling on his wrist — and thumbs gently at Percy's cheek.

"We'll figure it out together."

…

It doesn't fix everything. Even with magic, that's now how it works.

But Oliver knowing means he has someone to tell when it feels like everything is falling apart.

Oliver takes him flying, because when they fly hard and fast, Percy has to focus on the air in his lungs, the pull of his muscles, and he can't think about anything else. There's no room.

Guilt and grief still sit heavily in the pit of his stomach, and he still aches with it.

But he learns to breathe through it.

He isn't healed.

He's not sure he'll ever be healed.

But maybe he'll be all right, regardless.


End file.
